From the other room, the sound of crying grew to sobbing. For the first time in his life Reynie was relieved by a child’s distress. There was more here than he could understand right now. Call him a coward, but he was grateful for an escape.
They both hurried into the room. Marguerite had stopped crying and was awake.
“Could you leave us please, Caroline?”
She hesitated and he stepped closer to her, speaking in a voice for her ears only.
“Marguerite is old enough to express herself clearly and I will be better able to give her a reliable diagnosis if we speak in confidence.”
“But what could she say to you, that she could not say to me?”
“I cannot imagine a single thing, my dear, but then we are not ten years old.”
Caroline stopped wringing her hands. “You are exactly right. You must speak to her in private. I have treated her as an adult too much these two years. She is still, after all, only a child.” She drew a deep breath, walked over to the bed, and pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead. “I will be in the next room, ma belle.”
Reynie watched her walk from the room, then moved to the window and threw the curtains open. Rain clouds had darkened the spring sky, but still the light was startling.
When he turned around, Marguerite had her eyes squinted shut against the burst of daylight. He moved closer to the bed, blocking the light, so that when she opened her eyes they did not continue to water.
“If your sleep is not restful, Marguerite, then we will talk awhile.”
She looked at him with an expression close to terror. “I cannot sleep. I have the most terrible dreams. That they are taking Miss Morton from me.”
He sat down in the small chair by the bed, wondering if it was meant for a fully grown man. He turned his attention to the child, noting the hollow eyes and the sheen of wet on her forehead.
“How did you know to come so soon, Mr. Osgood? I should think that nightmares would have to last for a number of days or be very violent for you to be called.”
“Hmmm.” He looked away from her and scanned the room. It was filled with child-sized furniture, including a toilet stand on which sat a pitcher and bowl. It was perfectly tidy, except for some wet spots on the floor, drips between the stand and the bed. He looked again closely at Marguerite, who was watching him with equal interest.
“I was on my way home from Mrs. Beltran, who had another healthy baby boy, and thought that I would stop in and see how your arm is mending. The nightmares that Miss Morton reported were a complete surprise.”
“Then perhaps it is too soon for you to know what is causing them.”
He laughed. “Oh, my little soldier, it is hardly surprising that you should have nightmares.”
She looked pleased with that and he shook his head. “But my question to you is whether you have had them before?”
She considered her answer for so long that Reynie felt compelled to add, “Perhaps I should simply ask Miss Morton after all.”
“There is no need.” She shook her head with exaggerated agitation. “No, I have never had nightmares before.”
“I see.” He rubbed his chin with his hand. “But now that you are settled they haunt you?”
Marguerite nodded cautiously.
“And they are serious enough to make you sweat?”
He stood up and then wiped her forehead with his handkerchief.
She nodded, eyes wide and guileless.
“Hmmm.” He spent a few moments inspecting her arm, soon satisfied that it was mending as it should. As for the nightmares, he had so little experience of this type of illness and he was unsure how to proceed. Oh, he could recall the basic cause as well as the suggested treatment but why should she have nightmares now when there was no longer cause for worry?
“You know that there is no war here? No Committee of Public Safety can reach you.”
“Yes, I know that.” She spoke with purely adult exasperation. “But safety means very little to me, if I must leave Miss Morton. I think I would run away and come back to her if she sent me from her.”
Aha, he thought and tried to disguise his interest in these last words. Here was the heart of her problem. She feared losing the one person left who meant anything at all to her. He could understand that with no effort at all.
“Have you told Miss Morton how strongly you feel?”
Marguerite nodded. “But she says that she has a responsibility to find my family.”
“And you do not want the same thing. To be reunited with an aunt or uncle?”
“No. I think she will find they are all dead too.” She said this with a matter-of-fact detachment he found unnerving.
“Perhaps not,” was all he could manage.
“And even if they are alive it would not matter. She is all the maman I need now. We can contrive to make a living. I know we can. We did before.”
The child had learned her stubborn certainty from a woman who defined the word. He wiped her brow one more time.
“Rest now, Marguerite.” He stood up. “You do not need to sleep if you are afraid of dreams.” He walked to the nursery shelf and took down a yellow-haired doll that looked well loved. He brought it to her.
“Here, let Missy entertain you while I speak with Miss Morton.”
Marguerite took the doll and settled her in the crook of her bandaged arm.
“I will send Miss Morton to you, shortly. Perhaps she can read to you. Do you have a favorite fairy tale?”
Marguerite nodded. “‘The White Cat’ or ‘Goldenlocks.’”
“I will make both a part of the recommended suggestions for recovery.”
Leaving her smiling, he went into the sitting room and to his other, much less reasonable, patient.
Both of the women were in the sitting room surrounded by masses of fabric that made the room look like a draper’s shop. Caroline immediately abandoned the clothes and turned to him.
“How is she?” Caroline asked.
“Already recovering.” He gave her his full attention. “Buchan says that nightmares are caused by a nervous affliction and arise chiefly from indigestion.”
“The nervous part is nonsense,” Caroline scoffed. “Unless her natural curiosity could be called nerves. Indeed, I have never known a child less prone to worry.” She paused and considered a moment. “Now I can agree that indigestion from rich food is entirely a possibility. She did eat an amazing number of griddle cakes this morning.”
“My mother has always thought food the surest way to good health. I wish it were always that simple. Buchan speaks of any number of treatments, but I think it is best to keep her diet very bland.”
“Less food?” Caroline asked on a note of incredulity.
“No, not less, as I suspect that hunger may be as realistic a cause of her dreams as an imbalance of humors. Just a bland diet, fewer griddle cakes, and more bread and milk. It will be better for her arm as well.”
Caroline nodded.
“And it would also help to distract her from what upsets her. She wants you to read her ‘The White Cat’ and ‘Goldenlocks.’”
Now Caroline exchanged glances with her friend.
“‘Goldenlocks.’” Susan Landry grimaced. “I hate that fairy tale. And it’s Marguerite’s favorite?”
Caroline nodded, “It has been her favorite for years now. When she was younger she preferred ‘Little Red Riding Hood,’ but then she switched.” Caroline turned to Reynie. “‘Goldenlocks’ is about a man who is set a number of impossible tasks before he can receive his heart’s desire. In this case, the princess he loves.”
Reynie wondered if the man’s name was Reynaud, but pushed that thought to the back of his mind. “Whatever will distract her from her upset.”
He reached for his hat, but was diverted with a question.
“What do you think, Mr. Osgood?” Susan Landry held up what he now recognized as a light blue dinner dress.
“I think that in less than an hour you have managed to turn this sitting room into a shop that would rival anything in York.”
“Hardly, sir. These gowns are months old, but I thought with only a few adjustments they would suit Caroline perfectly.”
“This is hardly an area that I know much about.” Escape was paramount in his mind, but he had not quite yet completed all his business.
Caroline was standing near a mirror that some footman must have brought into the room, as it had not been there before. Her expression was uncertain and now a blush of embarrassment replaced that.
“Susan, I cannot take all these.”
“Of course you can. I’ll never wear any of them again. I have no idea what possessed me to order that plum-colored day dress. It does not suit me at all. I cannot tell if it is the style or the color that is wrong. You will be doing me a favor by taking it. In fact, I suspect that it will not suit you at all either.”
Caroline turned to Reynie. Her embarrassment had faded, replaced by a rueful smile.
Reynie smiled back at Caroline, “Miss Landry’s generosity is something else that has not changed, Caroline. And there is no convincing her of its excess.” His smile became a grin, pleased beyond all reason that they could share this little understanding. Perhaps he could build on this small step.
Caroline nodded and would have turned from him. He cleared his throat and waited until she turned back.
“I am loath to distract you, but there is, ahem, one more thing.”
Caroline put the dress down as if relinquishing all frivolity and turned to him with new concern.
“Marguerite will be healthy again, soon, Caroline, I am sure of it.”
Some of the tension passed from her.
“But if I could understand her background perhaps I would understand what ails her.” He set his hat down again and spoke directly to Caroline after a nod at her friend. “Could you please tell us both a little of your experience.”
“Oh no, I cannot imagine that would help at all.” Caroline looked appalled at the very idea.
She looked at Susan for support but her friend was nodding.
“If Mr. Osgood says that it will help Marguerite then I think you must tell us.” She began clearing gowns from the sofa so they could sit. “It is as I told you this morning, he draws some of his best cures from his patient’s explanations.”
Bless you, Susan Landry, even if you do make me sound like a magician. Better that than a charlatan.
“But I am not his patient.”
“Caroline,” Susan spoke without hesitation, “You know her mind better than anyone else in Thirsk, in all of England even if there are a dozen relatives in London.” She patted the seat next to her. “Dearest, I know this will be difficult, but it is for Marguerite.”
Reynie kept silent. Caroline would accept Susan’s persuasion and most likely reject his, which was exactly why he had included her in the suggestion.
“Very well.” Caroline drew a deep sigh, but belied the distress that it revealed with a set expression.
He watched her face, her eyes, and tried to read their expression, as she searched her memory for where to begin.
Tell me everything, he thought. Were you happy? Did you miss me? Were your five years as half lived as mine?
She did not take a seat, but stood before them in front of the empty fireplace. Since she did not sit, Reynie chose not to sit as well, and took a place behind the sofa.
With a vague nod, Caroline composed herself.
“After the fall of the Bastille, Monsieur le Comte sent word that we would return to his chateau in Amiens. Marguerite was delighted.”
“She must have been terrified.” Susan Landry was sitting on the edge of her seat, her handkerchief in hand. So this is all new to her as well.
“Oh no, Susan. Marguerite had very little idea of the riots in the city. It was that she so loved the country. And Monsieur le Comte insisted that we would be safer there.”
She looked up at the ceiling and then back at her audience, dry-eyed but in pain.
“He was right. We were there for two years and it was easy enough to pretend that the chaos would never reach us. But when the King was executed everything changed.”
When Susan raised her hand to her neck and shuddered, Caroline merely nodded.
“There were riots again, as there had been during Le Grand Peur after the fall of the Bastille. But Amiens had been spared then and Monsieur le Comte was certain that reason would prevail. Besides, Madame was increasing and he was worried about her health.”
“So you stayed?” Susan asked this with a breathless amazement, as though this were the one crucial bad decision.
“Yes.” Caroline nodded. “And not three days later a band of rabble descended on the chateau with torches and their own homemade weapons.”
Caroline closed her eyes and shook her head. “Marguerite was not the only one afraid. We all were. Her father tried for calm, assured us that he could reason with the mob, but he took the precaution of finding us a hiding place. He made us promise to stay there.”
Caroline was telling the story with so little emotion, as though she had long ago come to terms with this horror. Susan was already dabbing at her eyes.
“We did as he wished, until we thought we were alone and feared the fire more than the brigands. Her parents were gone, the chateau was afire. We never saw them taken away. We simply never saw them again.”
She stopped and shook her head, obviously still finding that difficult to accept.
“It was the reason I decided to stay at the chateau. I hoped that her parents would return or send someone for us. But no one came.” She paused a moment. He watched her as she edited the story for her audience and wished that they were alone.
“I never told Marguerite they were gone forever, but when we began our trip to Calais she understood that there was little hope left.”
She spoke with a calm voice, as though recounting an ordinary life and not one that had gone awry.
How did you survive? Why did you not write? He kept silent with effort. It was her story to tell.
“We waited in Calais until we could find transport. There was an Englishman on a yacht and I thought he would help us. But in the end that proved a vain hope.”
“But why? He was English. Surely he would help a fellow countrywoman?”
Susan’s naiveté made Reynie wince.
“Oh, Susan, the price he was asking was too high.”
“He was going to make you pay?” She was aghast. Reynie could imagine what the payment was and his imagination turned his stomach.
Caroline shrugged off further explanation of the perfidy of the mysterious “English lord.” “In the end a fisherman gave us passage. I suspect he was more usually a smuggler. But he agreed to take us and we landed at Dover.”
“Then you made the journey here by coach.” It was the first question he asked and the gentlest.
“That was the easy part. There are only four passengers allowed on a mail coach.” She explained this to Susan, whose only familiarity with a mail coach was as one seen in passing. “The other passengers were very entertaining.”
It was a trip that would have sent most women to bed for a week. Her claim that the coach trip was “the easy part” told him more about her previous months’ struggles than any other part of her very guarded story.
He moved forward. “Thank you, Caroline. That helps a great deal.” It was a lie. It was such a simple account, told with little detail and even less emotion that it gave him little insight into Marguerite’s worries. But he knew enough not to press. To be grateful for this first step to understanding.
Susan was not as restrained as he was. She jumped up from the sofa and wrapped Caroline in a hug more maternal than ladylike. “It is behind you, dearest. You can forget all about it now and think only of happy times.”
“Miss Landry?”
They all turned to the open door, where one of the kitchen maids stood, hopping from one foot to the other.
“Gracie dropped the skewers what was roasting the chicken for dinner, Cook is beating her something awful, and the housekeeper has gone to market day.”
Susan dropped the dress she had just picked up and flew to the door. “Really, we must do something about Cook’s temper.” She paused at the door a moment. “Will you wait, Mr. Osgood? I do hope that a surgeon will not be required, but I would hate to have you leave and then call you back.”
“Do you want me to come with you now?” He moved toward the door.
“No. No. I should like to try to keep this to ourselves.” She hurried after the maid, leaving Reynie alone with Caroline.
Reynie turned back to find her busily collecting the clothes strewn about. Her face was a white counterpoint to the colorful clutch of fabric now gathered up in her arms. She avoided his eye, but could not ignore his presence. She skirted the room, moving around where he stood even though there were three garments draped on the chair closest to him. He picked them up, amazed at how light they were. Summer gowns, surely.
He knew she longed to escape. He was equally determined not to allow it. He walked closer to her and would have handed her the dresses, but her arms were full.
“Miss Landry is the most loyal of friends, is she not, Caroline? If her generosity is an embarrassment then it is one that I hope you will bear with charity.”
“You make it sound as though I am the one doing her the favor. You should have been a diplomat.”
“There is much of diplomacy in medicine, something I have discovered with experience. She is so pleased to have you home.” He shook his head. “We are all pleased to have you back again.” He grimaced at the triteness of it. He nodded at the clothes in their arms. “And this is how she celebrates.”
Caroline disappeared through a door to what must have been her bedroom. He stayed where he was, determined to wait for her return. She came back a few minutes later with a look of exasperation. He made no apology for not taking her hint to leave and smiled as she carefully took the garments from him.
“Caroline?” He was not about to let her escape again now that there was no excuse for her to return from her bedroom. “I must apologize.”